PATHOGEN
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: E/O Drabble Challenge - SPECIAL EDITION for MAD SERVER'S birthday. Challenge Theme: Dean has a fever. Dean's sick...really sick. Sometimes what strikes one of them down has nothing to do with the supernatural.


Enkidu07's Drabble Challenge -- _**SPECIAL EDITION**_

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAD SERVER!**

_I can't think of a better birthday present than a flurry of sick or hurt Dean. Mmmm. Or sick and hurt Sam. Oh, heck, the Winchesters in any way, shape, or form. :-)_

Prompt Theme: "Dean has a fever." Bonus if Sam feels Dean's forehead while remaining in character. _Love it!  
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Word Count: The drabble rule of 100 words was suspended for this challenge. We were encouraged to choose between a drabble of 100 words or snippets of 500 or 1000 words. I love sick!Dean and hospital stories so much that I got a little wordy. Sorry about that.

Other players in the challenge are now too many to list! You can find the list of names at Enkidu07's profile page and/or OnyxMoonbeam's profile page. Also, to find all of the lovely drabbles, there's a sweet little C2 community out there to subscribe to and enjoy. You can find the link on their profile pages mentioned above.

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Disclaimer: Neither the boys nor anything related to Supernatural belongs to me. I'm just having some fun with the boys, playing around with Eric Kripke's sandbox.

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**Pathogen**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

Dean Winchester bit his bottom lip to stifle the groan that threatened to erupt. He was dizzy and ached all over—every joint, every muscle, not to mention his head. It was pounding so fiercely he was surprised his brain wasn't leaking out of his ears. His stomach was trying to claw its way up his esophagus, and his eyes were burning so bad he wanted to pluck them right out of his head.

The Winchester brothers, in the midst of their current hunt, were at Lansdown Cemetery looking for the grave of one Patsy Peterson. Sam had noticed Dean's gait becoming more erratic and slower the longer they continued their search. That coupled with a few other not-so-subtle clues led the younger man to one simple conclusion. One his older brother was not going to want to hear.

"Dean, c'mon man, you're sick."

Dean's teeth reluctantly released their hold on his bottom lip and he muttered, "Am not." His voice was hoarse and husky.

"Then why are you wobbling like a Weeble?"

Muttering something that distinctly sounded like a slurred _"I'll show you a Weeble"_ under his breath, Dean straightened and determinedly marched forward, the shovel he carried cradled in the crook of his arm. He only made it a few steps before increasingly shaky legs gave way, and he sank to his knees. The groan he'd been holding back tumbled forth on a pain-filled exhale.

Sam crouched and placed a strong hand on Dean's shoulder. The other hand ghosted lightly across his older brother's forehead. "God, you're burning up."

"Ha. Sh-Sh-Shows what you know. I'm actually f-f-freezing." His eyes slid closed, and he swayed. As if to prove that point, a deep shudder wracked the hunter's muscular frame.

"That's it. We're done here. Can you walk back to the car?"

"Wha? N-No, we hafta…um…" He blinked slowly and raised the shovel still clutched in his hands. "The s-spirt…we hafta…"

"No, all we _**have**_ to do is get you back to the motel," Sam loaded his voice with authority, "Walk or carry?"

Dean pulled away even though he wanted to lean into the touch. "Dude! Walk." He ever so slowly pushed himself to his feet and stumbled a few steps back the way they'd just come.

Sam switched the duffel bag he carried to his other shoulder, stepped forward, and wrapped a supporting arm around Dean's waist, hooking a finger through a belt loop. "I gotcha."

The older Winchester leaned into the support knowing that without it he was likely to face plant straight into the green grass in the shadows beneath their feet. His own felt leaden as he lurched forward somewhat in time with his brother's longer stride. His surroundings swirled, grayed out a little.

Sam grunted and readjusted his hold on Dean. The longer they walked the more of his older brother's weight pressed against him. "Not much further, Dean, I promise." Suddenly the ground dropped away from under his left foot throwing them off balance. Sam fell, bringing his brother to the ground with him. They both hit with a jarring thud. Sam rolled over and pushed to his hands and knees, glared at the hole into which he'd stepped, and looked at Dean who was sprawled face down, arms and legs akimbo. "Shit. I'm so sorry, Dean." The younger Winchester rose and stepped toward his brother, hissing when a sharp pain shot up his leg. A familiar pulsing throb signaled an ankle sprain. Ignoring it, Sam bent over his brother. "You okay?"

A low, raspy moan and a feeble flailing of limbs as Dean attempted to push himself up was his only answer.

The taller man started to pull Dean to his feet but stopped when the groaning grew more vociferous and Dean's hand smacked feebly against him. Without any more warning, his brother threw up with a mighty heave. Sam was spared the brunt, but Dean wasn't so lucky. The vomit spattered down his front, and Sam couldn't help but grimace. Worry gnawing at his gut, he finished pulling Dean up, secured an arm around his waist, and again got them underway. The going was slow. By the time the Impala came into sight fifteen minutes later, Dean's head lolled laxly against Sam's shoulder as consciousness slowly ebbed away.

Quickly dropping the duffel and shovels, Sam settled his brother in the front passenger seat. "Dean? C'mon, bro, wake up for me." He tapped Dean's hot, flushed cheek attempting to rouse him. There was no response. No moans. No groans. Nothing. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and his gut clenched. Gut instinct was screaming at him that something was terribly wrong. After shoving the supplies in the backseat, Sam limped to the driver's side and all but threw himself into the seat. After locating the keys in Dean's pocket, Sam cranked the ignition and quickly steered the Impala onto the road with a squeal of tires. There was no question in his mind whatsoever of what their next destination was going to be.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Soothed by the steady beeping of the heart monitor, Sam sighed and shifted in the hard plastic chair. He leaned forward and rested his fingers on Dean's left arm lying on top of the cooling blanket, careful not to disturb the IV cannula. His skin was still far too hot to the touch for Sam's liking. He bit his lip as his wrapped ankle twinged harshly and shifted again. Sam was just considering de-gowning, de-gloving, and de-masking to trudge off to buy another cup of the sludge they called coffee in this hospital when a hitch in breathing and a soft groan grabbed his attention.

"Dean? Hey, you wakin' up, man?" _Please be waking up._

Another groan was accompanied by fluttering eyelids then a welcome flash of green as Dean's eyes opened to half mast. "Mmmee?" His throat was so dry and voice so scratchy, it sounded like sandpaper scrabbling hard over a bed of nails.

Sam slid an ice chip between his brother's lips.

After a few seconds, Dean licked his still-dry lips and tried again. "Wha' hapn'd?"

"God, Dean, I've been so damn worried," the younger man rubbed a gloved hand across the back of his neck. "You managed to catch some freaky-assed virus. You've—You've been in the hospital for three days. They weren't," he stopped and swallowed hard, "the doctors weren't sure you'd make it. Some people haven't."

"'m sor-ry."

Sam looked at him with a puzzled frown. "For what?"

"Shou-da know—getting sick."

"You couldn't have known. The doctors have all said that this—this whatever the hell virus it is—comes on fast. They told me one minute a person's fine and the next…"

Dean suddenly grew agitated and struggled to sit up, grunting lowly with the effort. The heart monitor instantly reflected the growing agitation.

"What's wrong? Dean, what're you doing?" Sam stood and pushed against his brother's shoulders.

Panting, the older Winchester collapsed back against the bed, spent muscles quivering and twitching, a haunted and confused look on his face as Sam's unorthodox attire finally sunk in to his beleaguered mind. "You? Sick."

"No—no, I'm fine. Okay? I'm fine. They said if I had it, they would have known by now. This stuff is all just a precaution."

Sam saw the tension in Dean's body ease somewhat, but his brother tossed his head from side-to-side on the pillow. "Hot." His previously ice-soothed voice had regained its timid croak.

"Hey, okay, take it easy." He rose from the chair and limped to the bathroom, returning moments later with a wet washcloth which he folded and laid across his brother's sweaty forehead. Sam rested a palm there for a split second. "Better? You want another ice chip?"

"Mmm." Dean opened his mouth slightly, desperate for a little relief.

Sam slipped another chip of ice into Dean's mouth.

"Hurt."

"Yeah, I know, Dean. The docs said they've learned the aches and pains with this are beyond belief. I think they said the nurse can give you a little something if you want it now that you're awake. You don't feel nauseous, do you?"

Dean barely shook his head. His eyelids drooped over his glassy green eyes.

"Good. They've had to give you three different anti-nausea medications in your IV. They couldn't get you to stop throwing up after I got you here."

Dean suddenly flinched, moaned, and began shifting restlessly under the covers.

Wordlessly, Sam reached for the call button and pushed it to summon a nurse. He watched his brother's agitated stirring anxiously for a few minutes until Shelly Bentz slipped into the room and approached Dean's bed.

"Hey, Sam. I see he's awake. Hi, Dean. I'm Shelly." Her blue eyes sparkled above her mask.

"He's hurting. Can you give him something?"

Shelly quickly checked her patient's vitals and IV before turning to Sam. "Sure. The doctor left an order in his chart. I'll be right back."

In the few minutes that the nurse was gone, Sam re-wet the washcloth and returned it to its spot. He sank down into his chair and rubbed a thumb over the back of Dean's hand in an attempt to sooth.

Shelly returned and injected something into Dean's IV. She patted his shoulder. "You should feel better in a minute or two, hun." Dropping the needle into a nearby sharps container, she disappeared out the door, shedding the gown, gloves, and mask in the anteroom.

Dean quieted almost immediately and his eyelids began to droop with a little more determination. He blinked against their heaviness. The room around him grew a little fuzzy. "S-Sam?" his voice was now reduced to a ghost of a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Stay?"

"Don't worry, bro. I'm not going anywhere. Seriously—my ass and this chair have become fast friends." Sam thought he heard Dean whisper _TMI_ before drifting off to sleep, and, though he wasn't positive, he smiled for the first time in a long, long while. For that instant, Sam could forget that his brother, his best friend, had been a hairsbreadth away from death.

_**Fin**_


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